


The Weight of Dreams

by ScarletteStar1



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:52:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if it was all a dream?  What if Liz woke up in Red’s arms and hadn’t really been captured by Ressler?  What if Red and LIz were still on the run?  What would they discover about themselves--  both as individuals and as partners in life, crime, and love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her legs feel like they are covered in a sludge of syrup, sticky and slow as her feet attempt to beat against the forest floor beneath them. Her breath rips through her chest in gusts. The bough of a pine tree slices at her cheek as she runs, eyes blinded by tears or sweat or sap. Yes! Sap! That is what is slowing her down. She is coated in sap from the trees, from the woods all around her. It is a thick goop engulfing the forest floor and seeping up into her pant legs, into her skin, slowing her down. 

With every remaining ounce of strength, she thrusts her chest forward, panting violently, as though she is trying to cross over the end of a race in a photo finish. Then she is tripping, being pushed down into the sea or sap. She feels gunmetal between her shoulder blades, freezing against the heat of her flesh. A knee in her back, pinning her. 

“Elizabeth Keen, you have the right to remain silent,” he begins. 

“Don’t do this!” 

She screams it, fighting with all her might beneath his knee as he gathers her wrists together. 

“Don’t do this!” She screams again, wrenching in his grip. 

“Elizabeth,” his voice murmurs. But that doesn’t make sense. It’s not his voice, but it repeats as though from the bottom of a well. “Elizabeth!” 

She opens her eyes and through the tunnel of sleep departing, sees his face. Her wrists are in his hands. His hands are warm. It’s like she’s coming up for air, slow at first, but then gulping in huge sobs. 

She sits up in a sudden motion on the couch. She’s in the jet. They are in the air. 

“Let go of me!” She gasps, ripping her wrists out of his grasp. 

“You were scratching your face,” he says, releasing her wrists and stroking a palm over her hands as he places them back in her lap. “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” 

She wipes angrily at the tears that stream down her face, then swipes at her nose with her wrist in a gesture that is at once utterly undignified and precious, so much so that it renders him quite weak for a moment as he recalls a child he rescued over twenty years ago. 

He’s been sitting on the edge of the couch, but moves away to a nearby chair. He’s trying not to watch as she gathers herself, regains her sense of control and dignity, but she’s still shaking and it is all he can do not to go back to her, gather her to him, embrace her. 

“Would you like some water?” He offers, trying not to sound as helpless as he feels. 

“No,” she snaps. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” 

“You’ve had a bad dream, Lizzie. That’s all. You’re safe. We are miles above the earth right now, and we are safe. In case you forgot, we made incredible headway today.” 

“I didn’t forget,” she whispers. 

“How about a tea, then,” he says and does not wait for her to respond before he calls out, “Dembe, a ginger tea for Lizzie, please.” She’s so pale. He’s got to do something to warm and revive her. 

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” she says. Her voice and breath are more even as she swings her legs over the side of the sofa. 

“You know, when I was about seven, I saw the Wizard of Oz for the first time,” he starts. She takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before measuring her exhalation so it does not seem gusty or impatient. “For weeks afterwards I had nightmares of those damn flying monkeys. I was so terrified by the dreams of those impertinent monkeys that I would wake, paralyzed in fear, unable to get out of bed even to use the restroom in the middle of the night. So I wet the bed. It was humiliating. Completely humiliating. For at least three weeks I couldn’t or wouldn’t tell anyone about it. We had this house keeper when I was a boy, Mrs. Needhauser. She was a gigantic German woman who perpetually smelled of cinnamon and had breasts the size and shape of the Hindenburg. She kept my secret and did all that extra laundry, and made sure I had extra baths on those mornings when I woke soaked in my own sweat and urine. Finally, she got it out of me. The monkeys. The tortuous monkeys. And do you know, Lizzie, what happened when I finally told old Mrs. Needhauser about the monkeys?” 

He pauses and waits for her to respond, but all he gets is her stare and a raised eyebrow. So, he continues. 

“The monkeys stopped haunting my dreams. Something about vocalizing that fear, about giving light and words to that awful image made it all but disappear.” 

He chuckles and pats his knees as he recalls being seven and scared. 

“I’ve never told anyone other than Mrs. Needhauser about those dreams, Lizzie,” he says. 

Dembe brings forth a steaming mug of tea and sets it on the table next to Lizzie. Without a word, he goes up to the cockpit, leaving the two of them in relative privacy. Lizzie wraps her hands around the mug, allowing the heat to seep into her skin.

“Thank you for confiding in me,” she rasps and takes a sip of the spicy tea. “But I think I’ll be fine, Red.” 

“Lizzie. We’ve been in close quarters for the better part of two months now,” he says. “You must know I am aware you have been having this dream almost nightly now for some time.” 

“How do you know it’s the same dream?” 

“Because you wake yelling the same thing each time.” 

“It’s stupid. It’s just a dream.” 

“Even so.” 

“It’s all a bunch of random images,” she begins, her voice strained and reluctant. “A forest, a camper, a briefcase full of something. I don’t know what, but I know it’s important to you. To us. And you’ve been captured. To free you, I have to bring this case to a meet up. It goes wrong, then Ressler is there and he’s chasing me down, but I can’t run right. It’s like I’m running through quicksand or honey, like I’m running in slow motion. Then Ressler catches me and it’s over.” 

“Ah, the slow motion running dream,” Red sighs. “Did you know scientists have actually studied that dream. It is among the most common dreams people have. Some people theorize that it frustrates the mind because when you are running in your dream, the center of your brain responsible for running doesn’t actually fire up, so it feels different. Other people theorize that when you dream you are running in slow motion it is because there are real-life sandbags weighing you down, keeping you from your goals in the waking world.” 

“Well. Now. I’ve told you. So can you guarantee my bad dream will go away,” she quipps as she sets down her teacup. 

“Unfortunately, I have learned that guarantees are sticky little things, and hard to insure,” he says, laughing a bit but without much mirth. He senses it is okay to do so, so he stands and approaches Liz where she sits and takes the spot next to her. He takes her hands again in his own, laces his fingers through hers and squeezes them gently. “I can promise you I will do everything within my power to protect you. We will clear your name, Lizzie. We are so close. You’ll be free again. Totally and completely free, weighed down by nothing.” 

He raises her fingers and brushes them over his lips before letting them go. He pauses before getting back up to resume his seat, and it is in this momentary lapse Lizzie allows her body to slump against him, allows herself to be captured in his arms so he cannot rise, but can only sit there holding her, hoping she senses the beat of his heart as a lullaby of reassurance. A sound meant for her, and for her alone.


	2. Chapter 2

“That’s what I see when I look at you,” he hums in her ear. “I see my way home.” 

“But Ray,” she says turning to him, and looking up at him with eyes that match the glittering night sky. “You are home.” Her arms come around him and he collects her to his chest. His fingers splay over her back, feeling her heat through the thin material of her blouse. “We’re home already,” she whispers, standing on tiptoes to reach his ear with her lips. She nips his neck and he can no longer stand it. Weaving his fingers into her hair, he tugs her face gently into position so his lips can meet hers. They kiss with yearning, tentative mouths that quickly become more exploratory with tongues licking and teeth biting at flesh that possesses the secrets to the universe. 

She is granting him permission with every second she returns his kiss. He plants one hand on the small of her back to gain purchase and bends her back slightly so he can grope with the other hand at her waist, her hip, her breast. As his hand comes up to touch the flesh beneath her shirt, he is no longer a man possessing the secrets to the universe, but simply a man possessed. He’s hard as the steel hull of the ship on which they sail, and he grinds against her. She grinds back. They do not stop kissing any more than the tides stop responding to the eternal pull of the moon. Her hands are pulling on his neck, and he is getting ready to take her right there, against the wall of the shipping container with the balmy wind bathing their bodies,. Their skin is readily born to the night sky. 

There is so much he wants to tell her, but he doesn’t want to break the spell of their kiss. He doesn’t want to give her a single second to rethink what it is they are doing, and how good it feels. Natural. Necessary. They are pure oxygen for the other, life-giving yet explosive. 

He pulls her leg around his waist and thrusts into her. He’s throbbing. He’s not going to last long, but he wants to please her too. They have waited so long for this moment. 

“Daddy?” A high pitched voice pierces the night. Red pulls away from Naomi and sees that Jennifer is perched on the edge of the ship’s railing, hovering above the abyss of the ocean. He looks back and forth, frantically between his little girl and his wife. But where is Lizzie? Jennifer whimpers, drawing Red’s attention back to her precarious situation. 

“Your daughter needs you, Ray,” Naomi says simply. Her hands are by her side and she is fully clothed in an earthy-looking linen dress. “She’s waiting,” she says. 

He reaches down to buckle his pants, feeling awkward and ashamed and completely panicked. “Sweetheart,” he says trying to sound calm. He doesn’t want the child to panic. She is so close to the edge. “Honey, you need to come down from there. Come to Daddy, Jenny.” He moves slowly towards his child, trying to focus on her and trying not to worry or wonder about where Lizzie went. 

“How about a drink,” Berlin asks. “It’s not too early is it? Ah, we can just say we are on Moscow time, yeah?” 

“Not now!” Red hisses, furious at the man who is trying to distract him. Jennifer has put a leg over the railing so she is straddling boat and sea. “Jenny,” he says sternly. “Put your leg back over. Daddy is coming. Please stay put.” For every step he takes, she seems to grow farther away. 

“Whole world is on fire, Ray,” Naomi says in that sardonic voice that would drive him mad. Suddenly, he smells the smoke. He turns around and sees flames licking at Naomi’s ankles. She’s standing there, stock-still, that skeptical, angry look on her face. 

“No,” he gasps. He puts a hand out towards his daughter. “Jenny, come. Take Daddy’s hand,” he commands. 

“Well, isn’t this what you wanted, Ray,” Naomi taunts with a sideways smile. “Didn’t say you would burn down the world to save her?” 

“Yes, but,” he gasps. Smoke is burning the back of his throat. It is thick and black, acrid and chemical. He can barely see Jennifer. And where the fuck is Lizzie? “I don’t understand,” he says spinning around. Where is Lizzie? Weren’t they just kissing? Weren’t they just home? He is not a man to lose his composure, but this is just about more than he can bear. 

“Come on, Reddington,” Berlin says. “It’s like they say, when the world is falling down, you make the best of what’s still around. How about that drink, eh?” 

“I said not now!” Red shouts, thrashing in the flames, drenched in sweat. He can smell his own flesh as it singes, and it is nothing but pain. He is about to turn to dust when he feels someone place a smooth pebble in his palm. He looks down to see Jennifer holding his hand. He scoops her into his arms and tries to cover her head with his coat. “We have to get out of here, Sweetheart. We have to get out. Let’s go! Let’s go!” 

“Red?” 

A new voice floats towards him. 

“Red? Hey. Wake up.” 

Lizzie is sitting over him on the couch in the theater. He’s panting, soaked in sweat. 

“Lizzie,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Were you having a dream?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, sitting up. He sees the empty bottle of scotch as he feels the pounding behind his temple. “Must have done a little too much tippling at the marmalade last night. I’m sorry if I woke you.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. I’m fine,” he says. As he looks down, he realizes he is clutching Lizzie’s hand. And she has not pulled it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little taste I dreamed up. Bad pun intended. Disclaimed... yadda, yadda, yadda. . . Thank you so much for the comments!! They make my day!!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red's night terror puts Liz in a very precarious situation. .

She wakes with his arm across her throat. As she gasps for air, she realizes his eyes are open, but they do not see. He has a grim expression on his face, set, stoney, scarey. Her eyes bulge as she tries to breathe beneath his arm. She pushes back against him and realizes he is not using his full weight. 

He changes his grip so he is using both his hands to pin her shoulders down against the couch. 

“Red!” She screams his name. “Reddington! What are you doing? Let me go!” 

“This is for Lizzie,” he mutters. His eyes are like a shark’s, flinty, frightening, unfathomable. 

“I am Lizzie,” she yells. Her body thrashes under his, trying to wiggle free. But he is broad and strong and heavy on top of her. “Red! It’s me! Lizzie! Please stop! Wake up!” 

As she screams the words, she realizes he is asleep. She realizes he is having a night terror. In her training as a psychologist she learned that when an individual has a night terror, it is worse to try to wake them. The best approach is gentle reassurance until they drift back into their natural sleep pattern. No one is quite sure why one has a night terror, why they walk and speak and act as though awake while really asleep. But there is a theory, Liz knew, that irregular sleep and exhaustion was a likely culprit for bringing them on. They had both been sleeping irregularly, struggling with bad dreams, anxiety, and fatigue more intense than either of them had ever known. 

In an attempt at being gentle and soothing, Lizzie brings her hand up and strokes Red’s head. “Shhhh,” she murmurs. “Hush now. It’s okay. It’s okay,” as she repeats these words over and over, his body seems to relax slightly and she realizes she is weeping underneath him, from fear or exhaustion she does not know. “Red,” she pleads. “Please. You know you don’t want to hurt me. I know you won’t hurt me.” 

She continues stroking his head, surprised at how tender and soft his shorn scalp feels under her hand. She kneads his shoulders in an attempt to relax him back into a sound sleep. As she takes a deep breath, she notices his scent. He smells like sandalwood soap and his nightly cigar and scotch. He smells of an unidentifiable cologne which releases and perfumes the air in a heady and almost intoxicating for as Liz pushes her fingers into his neck. 

Red releases his grasp on her shoulders. “I’ll find you,” he growls as he slumps against her neck. “There is no where you can hide from me. I will avenge her. Tell them I am coming.” 

“Red,” she whispers, thinking maybe now it is safe to wake him. “You are having a dream. I’m okay. I’m here. Please wake up.” 

Her voice serves only to rekindle his wrath as he springs up and places both his hands around her neck. He lifts her head slightly off the pillow and brings it back down with a thud. It hits the soft surface and she is not harmed, but it knocks the already scarce air out of her, and his fingers tighten around her neck. She beats at his back with her fists, then reaches under his t-shirt to scratch his flesh. In another scenario she realizes this could have erotic potential, but here and now, she is fighting for her life. She can’t breathe. She can’t talk. She can’t scream. 

In a burst of terror, she imagines Red awakening next to her stiff, cold body and realizing what he’d done. 

She knows he’ll never forgive himself. 

That he’ll never live through it. 

She cannot let this be. She cannot let this be the end of either of their stories. 

In a hypoxic fit, just as she is about to lose consciousness, and fueled only by pure adrenaline, she brings her hand up as far as she can and then brings it down squarely and firmly as is possible from the awkward position onto his ass. 

The odd spanking startles him. He grunts. He loosens his grasp on her neck. And as she gasps huge breaths of air into her lungs, his face collapses into the crook of her neck.

At first she thinks he is snoring and that she will be able to roll out from beneath his body. But he is heavy and firm. As she wriggles, trying to free herself, she feels him press a very erect cock against her thigh. She freezes under him. Nocturnal erections are a normal part of male sleep, she knows this. Again, her psychological training is coming in handy. If she can just lie still and wait a few moments, it will undoubtedly pass and she can roll away. They can both wake up in the morning with their dignity moderately intact. 

His hand comes back up to her neck and she braces in terror for another attack. But his fingers are gentle as they stroke her skin, knead her flesh, and entwine in her blonde tendrils. His face is close to her ear and he groans, but this time it is not anger or rage but arousal imparted by his instinctual voice. Still frozen beneath him, she feels his lips work the flesh of her battered throat. It’s an odd sensation-- the fear and adrenaline still pumping through her along now with something more. 

“Lizzie,” he moans. He nips her neck in that sweet spot that makes her back arch helplessly. “Oh, god, oh Lizzie,” he groans, grinding his cock against her. Surely he must have forgotten to take off his weapon because all of that hardness can’t possibly be him. . . Can it? She reaches down to find out, purely because she does not want to get shot in the leg because Reddington is having a night terror. 

“Oh fuck,” she hisses as her hand strokes over the length of something very generous and hot that is all man and no metal. Her breathing comes faster, but not because she is being choked any longer. She’s scared, but not of being harmed. She’s scared of what she is feeling, of the heat soaking the thin cloth between her legs, of what it means, of what will happen. 

Red runs his hand over the cloth of her night shirt, grazing her breasts and nipples as he goes. She can tell his mouth is searching for hers and she is terrified of kissing him. What kind of woman kisses the Concierge of Crime on the lips? And likes it? Because as she pushes her hips up to rub against his hardness, she is quite sure if he kissed her, she would like it. 

They have been on the run for weeks. Meaning, it has been weeks since she was with Tom on the boat, weeks since she scratched that itch that in her thirties is pulsating through her entire body like an extended techo remix of her hormonal twenties. It doesn’t take much to make her climax these days. Maybe over the last couple weeks she’s stolen into a ladies room here or there and had at her clit for a few minutes while thinking thoughts that would have made her blush a few months ago, back when she was that other version of herself. But something about being on the run has made her wild, insatiable, and willing to keep secrets. 

She thrusts up against him, wiggling until she is in just the right spot. Penetration can be a fucking amazing thing, but she doesn’t dare try to free him from his trousers, and anyway, she can get off much more efficiently this way. She rubs against him, finding his tip through both of their clothes and positioning it so it can hit her clit. While she does this, he alternately seems to snore and suckle at her neck and chin. She has gotten past wanting to kiss him and now she just fucking wants to come. Afterall, he just tried to dream-kill her. The least he can do is bring her to a satisfying orgasm before she rolls out from under him, or wakes him and sends him back to his bed. 

She’s trying to be quiet. She’s trying not to clutch too firmly to his ass. She’s trying not to sink her teeth into his neck which is well within biting range and continues to emit a lusty fragrance of incense, smoke and sweat. She’s squints with trying not to swear as she pushes against him and clenches every muscle in her legs. She’s trying not to pant and groan as she begs for just a few more seconds. And then she’s trying not to cry out as she rides out the sweet rage of her climax against him. 

As she stills again beneath him, she prays to whatever gods might be watching that he has not somehow woken. The sweet pulsations fade and she is filled with a crazy mix of guilt and shame, wondering what the fuck just happened. 

She pushes Red easily off of her. He seems to be sleeping soundly, now on his side against the back of the couch, his mouth slightly open, slightly snoring. She decides to leave him here and go sleep in the other bed. She sits up, straightens her shirt, and pulls a blanket over him. 

Maybe someday this will be something they laugh about. Maybe someday she can tell him how she felt so embarrassed. And maybe someday she can share with him how before she got up to move to the other bed, she lowered her face and pressed her lips to his, for a full moment longer than a moment, just to see what it would feel like outside of a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You guys. No matter how much smut I write, I can never spell “erect” correctly. Thank goddess for spell check. Anyhoo, this chapter is dedicated to a dear, sweet, loving, and absolutely gorgeous woman who has given me so much compassion and breathing room this week. D. . . I don’t think i could have gasped the spores of this chap out without your loving help and support. Thank you, Lovely Ladybug. 
> 
> Enjoy! And Comment!!! OMG-- Comments make my LIFE!! As always, thanks for reading and resonating. Oh, yeah, disclaimed. These guys do not belong to me.. they just come over and play in the mud. Yup. We get dirty. xoxoxo!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... the dream trope is even more played than the "fake your death to get away from someone" thing. But I couldn't resist taking a whack at it anyway.

Since the night he nearly choked her to death in his sleep, he’s taken to sleeping behind a locked door. 

She’d not been able to hide the bruises around her neck and shoulders, although she certainly did not offer up any other information regarding their somnolent encounter that night. She tried to act as though it was no big deal. “Look,” she’d said. “It happens. We are both exhausted and stressed. Please, don’t worry about it.” But he’d have none of it. 

“Lizzie,” he’d growled at her. “Look at what I did to you. No. This will not do. That I could have. . .” He’d not been able to complete the sentence. He simply had grabbed her hand and pressed it to his face, inhaling the fragrance of her wrist. He’d gone off then and she’d not seen him for more than several hours. She’d actually started to worry that perhaps he had abandoned her and would send Dembe or Mr. Kaplan to collect her and bring her someplace else. 

When he came back, he looked ashen and smelled of scotch. 

“Where have you been,” she’d asked. She’d bitten her nails down to her flesh. 

“Out and about,” he’d replied, and something had told her not to press him any further. He’d paced about the room in which they were staying, gathering their things and loading them up in the car. “Time to go,” he’d said a few minutes later. She’d followed him without a word. 

He’d driven them through the night to a safe house which was large enough for them to have separate rooms and separate bathrooms. “We’ll be here for about a week,” he’d announced. 

Since then, he’s been distant. At times she catches him watching her when he thinks she’s not aware, but he says nothing, so neither does she. She finds herself desperate to bridge the gap that widens daily between them, and realizes she’s come to need their closeness, the shorthand in which they speak to one another, his silly stories. She finds herself longing for the little ways in which he would find excuses to touch her, a tap on her shoulder as they walked into a diner, or a pat her thigh when they pulled into a rest stop to freshen up. She can’t find the way to talk to him about it, so she gnaws at her lips. 

She should be glad to have more space. She should be grateful for her own bathroom with an actual clean and functional tub, and a large living room with a full wall of books. But she’s gotten so used to being within arm’s reach of him that it just feels too big. At times she looks around her and feels almost agoraphobic, like she will be swallowed up by the immensity of the space. 

Maybe, she thinks, maybe if I told him about the little kiss I stole. Maybe he would come back to me in all the ways I. . . She’s unable to complete the sentence for herself. 

Their nights take on a bizarre formality. Sometimes they sit and read together, or share a glass of something. Sometimes they sit side by side, their heads bent over the laptop’s screen as they search for one clue or another. More often than not, Red will stand first and bid her a stiff goodnight before taking his leave. And every night she hears the click of the lock on his door, and then silence but for the peepers and bull frogs outside. 

One night she decides she’s had enough of this ruse and pops out of her chair. “Well, if there is nothing else, I’ll be going to bed,” she says. 

“Goodnight, Lizzie,” he says, looking up at her but for a moment, his eyes glum and flat. He seems to not notice the haughty and impatient tone she takes, which frustrates her enough to give her door a hearty slam as she enters her room. 

She showers and climbs onto her bed, but it is almost ridiculously early. She hugs her knees to her chest and rocks a bit trying to calm her frazzled nerves. She slides between the covers and screws her eyes shut, trying to sleep. An hour passes and she hears his footfalls as he walks the hall to his room. She hears the click of the lock on his door. Another hour passes in silence and she still cannot sleep. 

A wail breaks the silence, some time later. At first she thinks it is the howl of a coyote or a trick of her mind, but then she hears it again. She kicks off the covers and gets out of her bed. She opens her door a crack and hears her name being called, clear and unmistakable, from behind his door. She creeps down the hallway wondering if he is having another of his night terrors. His cry comes again and she grows frightened that he is hurt or ill. She knocks on the door, but he does not answer and his cries only grow louder. 

She tries the door knob. It is locked. She runs to the kitchen and gets a chair, then returns to Red’s door and climbs up to feel around the door jamb for a key. There is none to be found. She climbs back down. 

“Fuck it,” she mutters and rams against the door with her shoulder and all her might. It takes a couple tries but she gets through. She stumbles into his room clutching her bruised shoulder. She runs to the bed, where he writhes and moans in his sleep. “Red,” she says. 

“Lizzie stay with me,” he says suddenly. “Please don’t go. Stay with me.” 

“Red, I’m here. Wake up.” She shakes him by his shoulders until he wakes with a start and a snort. He looks around wildly. 

“Elizabeth,” he gasps. 

“I’m sorry, Red. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I was worried. You were crying out and I thought maybe you were sick. You were calling for me in your sleep. You must have been having a dream.” 

“A dream,” he begins and wakes more fully. He sits up in his bed. “Lizzie, you’re alive.” 

“What? Of course I am.” She puts her hand on his forearm and rubs it to reassure him. “It was just a dream, Red. You’re okay.” 

He reaches out and takes her hands, but it is not enough reassurance for him and he grabs for her. She scootches closer to him and he clasps her to his chest, holding her almost painfully tight against him. His chest is bare, and she can feel beads of his sweat on her cheek. He nuzzles her face and kisses her forehead. He mutters her name over and over. Then he holds her at arm's length, looks her up and down, and touches her abdomen. He sighs and pulls her into him again. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” 

“Not really,” he grumbles. He leans back into his pillows, but does not let her go so she has no choice but to lie down in his arms. She can hear his heart racing. “I’m fine,” he breathes. 

“No,” she snaps. She slaps his arm as she sits up. “You are not fine. You’re drenched in sweat and your heart is beating so fast. Please, tell me. You’ve kept me at a distance these last days and I’ve had enough of it. Let me know what is going on with you, Red. Please.” 

He takes a deep breath and draws her back against him. “I dreamed you died,” he says. He laces his fingers into hers and brings her hand to his lips. “You were pregnant and there were complications. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t keep you safe. It’s the dream that has tortured me in one variation or another for several years now.” 

“I’m here,” she whispers and looks up to find tears streaming down his face. She reaches up to wipe them away. She strokes his face and her fingers pause on his lips. She exerts a slight pressure and opens his mouth just slightly to fit three fingers between his lips. She shivers as she feels his tongue slide over the tips of them. And suddenly it is her heart that is racing. “I’m here,” she says again. 

“Elizabeth,” he breathes against her fingers. “If anything happened to you. . .” he doesn’t finish the thought. He brushes the hair off of her forehead and kisses it again. 

“But it didn’t. And it won’t.” She tips her head back so she can see his face, then she kisses his cheek. His skin is so warm and tastes salty from his sweat and his tears. She kisses his cheek again. And again. And again, only this time it is not his cheek, but his lips, full and melting on her own. He whispers her name into her mouth and kisses her back until she realizes she is crying too. “Please don’t push me away any more,” she pleads. His response is to wrap his arms more tightly around her as he sweeps his tongue over the pulse at the base of her neck. 

After a while their breath slows. Her head on his chest, she feels him relax and listens to his heart slow. She wonders if maybe she should leave, and starts to extricate herself from his embrace. 

“Lizzie, please don’t go,” he murmurs, refusing to release her from his arms. “Stay with me.” 

“I will, Raymond,” she whispers and kisses the spot on his chest over his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments are LIFE. Please give me life... xoxoxo!

**Author's Note:**

> Fully disclosed. I own nothing but my imagination, filthy and mundane as it might be. . . And I live for reviews, so please feel free to let me know what you think. xo!


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